


Nothing Sweeter Than a Touching Scene

by speedgriffon



Series: Salvation is a Last Minute Business - Noir AU [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Characters to be added, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Historical Easter Eggs, Mild Sexual Content, Noir AU, Rating May Change, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Side Stories, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26011774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: A collection of side stories that take place during the events of “Salvation is a Last Minute Business” and the yet to be published sequel. Stories take place at various spots along the timeline and explore different character’s POVs. Chapters will be marked where they fall parallel to the main stories.Spoilers for “Salvation is a Last Minute Business”.“You know, to a man with a heart as soft as mine, there's nothing sweeter than a touching scene.” - Abbott - Peter Lorre (The Man Who Knew Too Much, 1934)
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Female Sole Survivor/Sole Survivor's Spouse (past)
Series: Salvation is a Last Minute Business - Noir AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674994
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Nothing Sweeter Than a Touching Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacon finally gets the chance to cook breakfast for Charmer. In a tender moment, he shares some truths about his past and thinks about a future with Madelyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapter 16 of Salvation is a Last Minute Business.

_“Another day, another ball of fire rising in the summer sky. The city is quiet now, but it will soon be pounding with activity. This time yesterday, Jean Dexter was just another pretty girl, but now she's the marmalade on 10,000 pieces of toast._ ”—The Narrator as played by Mark Hellinger _(The Naked City,_ 1948 _)_

* * *

**  
May 31st, 1958**

“ _The most intimate thing you can do for a person you love is cook them breakfast.”_

Words to live by—echoes from a former life—advice Deacon still believed in after so many years. He’d always been somewhat of a hopeless romantic, and despite the amount of tragedy the universe— _or God_ —had thrown his way, he remained steadfast in his convictions. A dangerous thing, given his line of work. If there was one thing he’d learned from watching _Casablanca_ , it was that you didn’t fall in love in the middle of a war.

Not to say the investigation into the Institute was anything like fighting Nazis in Europe—or maybe it was. The days he was getting shot at certainly felt like it, not to mention the car bombs (okay car _bomb_ —but one destroyed Volkswagen typically led to another). And then there were his fallen comrades—Railroad agents that had died at the Switchboard, Ticonderoga, and Augusta safehouse. This was war alright—Deacon only hoped that _V-Day_ was sooner, rather than later.

Through the darkness of it all, he’d found someone— _again_ —and was clinging to the hope that _this time_ , maybe, it would last. That this time, the cruel hand of fate wouldn’t reach down and snatch her from his grasp, just as their connection deepened. He wouldn’t— _couldn’t—_ lose her. Charmer— _Madelyn_ —she was—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Deacon hissed under his breath as he dropped an egg to the floor, frowning at the mess he’d made while distracted by his thoughts. He shot a glance down the hallway towards the half-open bedroom door, waiting several seconds for the telltale sounds of his creaky mattress and the even squeakier floorboards. But nothing came— _good_ —she was still asleep. Full speed ahead with operation _breakfast in bed_.

Ignoring the broken shells and splattered yolk at his feet, Deacon considered himself to be a good cook. He hadn’t had very many opportunities to show off the skill and providing late night meals after Railroad ops to Drummer Boy didn’t count—the schmuck would eat anything without appreciation of the craft—couldn’t even tell the difference between Ragù and Bolognese. Madelyn though, she understood it was an artform, just like one of his many other clandestine talents. 

She’d watched him intently the evening before as he prepared their meal— _beef bourguignon_ —just as he’d promised. It would’ve been easier to eat at the 24-hour diner down the block, especially after all they’d been through that day. Hell, the holiday weekend had barely started and Madelyn had managed to be shot at _twice_. But she insisted, even if it took all night just to have a home-cooked meal made by him. She meant it colloquially—the _home_ in _home-cooked_ —but it struck a chord with him, glancing over his shoulder as he sautéed vegetables to look at her perched on one of the barstools.

Madelyn had been smiling in that small, secret way, blue eyes bright and entranced by his every movement. Deacon contemplated telling her she looked like she belonged there, in the safehouse, in the closest thing he had to a _home_ —had very nearly asked her something far more dangerous after watching her savor the first bite. He held back his words, filled his mouth and burnt his tongue on hot stew, and laughed with her about French cooking and red wine. But the thought persisted—how nice it would be to settle down with _her_ —if she’d have him.

He always was the type to fall too hard, and too fast.

Their first time had been rushed, fervent and had resulted in a few smashed items along the kitchen counter. There was no less passion in their kisses that second night, dinner finished and wine bottle empty, but there was a cadence to it all as they took the time to better familiarize themselves with one another—get _lost_ in each other. Deacon wasn’t entirely sure if he’d gone soft, gone mad, or had died and gone to heaven. Maybe it was a sick combination of the three. Love always was like that, it seemed—a little part of yourself breaking off and floating away as it found root in the heart of one’s beloved.

“Damn,” he breathed a curse again, softly laughing to himself about the circumstances and bringing himself back to the present. He was in deep.

He caught his distorted reflection in the shiny surface of the toaster as he retrieved the crispy bread from the appliance, stacking it onto a plate next to a tiny jar of orange marmalade. “Shallow ends’ for chumps.”

Deacon quietly hummed a showtune as he organized the food on the wooden tray, plating the over-easy eggs next to the crispy bacon and freshly made hash-browns. He placed the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in one corner before situating the steaming cup of coffee in the other. He stood back to inspect his work, adjusting the silverware and lamenting that he didn’t have any fresh flora on hand to make the display _perfect_. Somehow he knew that Madelyn wouldn’t mind.

He balanced the weight of the tray in his hands before carefully making his way back down the hall, smiling at his efforts and rehearsing in his mind all the little ways he could wake her up. Deacon used his foot to push open the bedroom door but paused in the doorway as soon as he caught sight of Madelyn’s form on the bed. She was blissfully asleep, the picture of comfort dressed up in his button-down shirt from the evening before with the duvet pulled up across her waist, hair fanned out across the pillows like a golden halo of curls. With the sun shining in through the drawn-open curtains, she looked like she had walked right out of a movie—or maybe his dreams. Deacon suddenly cursed the fact Nick got to call her _doll_ , but maybe he could stake a claim on _angel_.

“Are you going to stand there all morning?”

Madelyn peeked open one eye, lips curling up into a small grin as she looked at him, hardly a trace of drowsiness in her voice. 

“The view is nice,” Deacon replied, watching as she leisurely pushed herself up to sit against the pillows and headboard. She stretched, arms reaching high above her head and shifting the fabric of the shirt she wore just enough that he saw a sliver of skin. He smiled at the cute way she yawned, wrinkled nose and all. “Just how long have you been awake?”

“Since that first egg crack,” she shrugged, eyeing the tray in his hands. “I’m a light sleeper, don’t you know? You can’t sneak out or up on me.”

“As tempting as it was to follow you out to the kitchen and join you, I decided feigning sleep was a better idea,” Madelyn continued with a quiet giggle, hiding her amusement behind her fingers. The delight and mischief in her eyes was intoxicating. “Let you surprise me.”

Deacon raised his eyebrows, lifting the tray as if on cue. “ _Surprise_!”

He finally entered the room, crossing over to one side of the bed as Madelyn shifted to create space for him to place the tray of food down before he sat on the edge of the mattress. He turned to face her, stretching to rest his chin in his palm, elbow sinking into the plush blankets. She grinned, eyes shimmering as they scanned over the platter.

“First dinner, now breakfast—”

“A show too,” Deacon joked, prompting her to snicker as he alluded to their more _boisterous_ activities.

“It _was_ quite the performance,” she replied, gaze running over his body and lack of clothing—an undershirt and boxers was good enough for a lazy day at the safehouse. “I feel thoroughly spoiled.”

“Good,” he responded, nodding at her. “Now eat, before all my hard work goes cold.”

Deacon stayed where he was, lounging sideways on the bed as he watched her eat. He stole the occasional bite of bacon, smirking to himself when he noted the little blush dusting her cheeks, seemingly flustered under his observation. In the morning light, without his sunglasses or dark-haired wig, the two underdressed in their most natural states it was all very _domestic_ —something Deacon hadn’t experienced in years. Might as well have been a lifetime. No wonder she felt nervous.

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, on the verge of saying something incredibly stupid and _too soon_ , caught up in the afterglow and butterflies that continued to swirl around in his stomach. He quelled them with a generous sip of her coffee, even if the added sugar and cream wasn’t his preference. Madelyn laughed at his subtle wince, swapping the ceramic cup from his hands for a piece of toast. She’d spread a generous dollop of marmalade atop and had taken one bite before passing it to him.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked before taking a mouthful.

“With skills like this, you could replace Codsworth,” she quipped, smiling against the rim of the coffee cup. “What a shame you don’t have a third arm.” 

“I don’t?” he teased between chews, raising a curious eyebrow.

Madelyn nearly choked on her sip of coffee, spluttering out the liquid into her hand and reaching for a napkin as she laughed at his lewd joke. As flustered as she was before, she was completely flushed now, neck and cheeks tinted a bright red as she struggled to contain her amusement and embarrassment at the mess she’d made. Deacon laughed with her, taking the cup from her hands to place back on the tray and offering another napkin as he sat up.

“You’re too much,” she sighed, slowly pulling the cloth from her face to reveal a coy smile.

Deacon took it from her, dropping it across the food tray before sliding it away and placing it safely on the ground. He sat in the empty spot, leaning over so his arms boxed her in on either side, fingers gradually peeling away the blankets to expose her naked legs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Madelyn leaned closer, arms circling around his shoulders as she traced her nose against his, lips smiling against his in the ghost of a kiss. “Jury is still out…if you’re bad for me.”

She was teasing him, Deacon knew that. But still, his heart strained against his ribcage, though he hid his reaction well. He knew he wasn’t the best choice for Madelyn—out of all the eligible bachelors in Boston, she could do so much better than some Railroad spy that couldn’t tell the truth. Lately, he’d been honest with her, but there was still so much she didn’t know—so much he would never tell her, just to keep her safe. That’s not the kind of partner she needed in life, not the kind of person you chose to share a future with.

Yet, there he was—there _she_ was—kissing him just as sweetly and enthusiastically as the night before, as she’d done the first night he’d brought her to the safehouse. She’d kissed him a few weeks ago too, outside her apartment door, full of want and silently pleading, confirming to him that she’d made her choice.

 _“You,”_ she’d breathed, hot against his mouth when they were perched on the barstools two nights ago. “ _Deacon, I want you_.”

Invigorated by the memory, he tugged Madelyn closer, her legs shuffling from beneath the covers and body shifting beneath his desperate grasp so that her knees straddled his thighs. He groaned, the feeling of her soft hands and manicured nails sliding up beneath his shirt a welcome surprise that had him breaking away from the heated kiss so she could remove it completely. Deacon moved to do the same to the button-up she was wearing, make some kind of raunchy remark about how good she looked wearing his clothes, but she stopped him. Instead, Madelyn nudged him to lay down, adjusting herself so she was strategically straddling his hips, avoiding his ever-increasing arousal.

He gripped her waist, keeping her steady as she bent over to pepper his face with tiny kisses, trailing down and away to his ear. He bit back a moan, glancing at the top of her blonde head. “Cruel, _cruel_ mistress.”

Madelyn softly chuckled against his skin, the sound and feeling doing nothing to placate his state. “Have somewhere you need to be?”

“No,” he answered in a breath, shifting beneath her, holding back from rolling his hips upwards. He smirked to himself, knowing she was just as riled up. “Well, _inside of you_. If those travel plans can be arranged.”

Deacon felt her smile, more importantly, the shiver along her spine at his cheeky statement. “I’ll book you on a first-class flight.”

Despite their obvious arousal, and her equally bawdy response (that had him tightening his grip and practically _growling_ ), Madelyn slowed her movements, pulling away to look down at his face. Her expression was hard to read, even as she softly smiled at him in that small, secret way, a few fingers brushing over the lines of his face. 

“Charmer?” he prompted, the worry from before suddenly worming its way back into his chest with an overwhelming sense of dread. Did she have the same doubts?

“Can I ask you something?” her voice was deadly quiet, just above a whisper and she was barely able to meet his gaze.

The open-ended question terrified him, and he had to admit that in that moment he was emotionally and _physically_ vulnerable—what with being pinned beneath her body to the mattress. Even if he could easily toss her aside and run away, he’d still have to answer to her eventually. Unless he ran away for good—but that was not an option, not when he’d resigned himself to drown in her waters and die a sweet, _sweet_ death.

So he answered, nodding once. “Yeah,” he squeezed her hip in a reassuring gesture. He bit the inside of his cheek as the next word came flying out without thought. “Anything.”

Even Madelyn seemed surprised, leaning further away until she was sitting up so she could trace the faint, ridged outline of a scar that ran along his chest towards his collarbone. Even though he’d given her permission, she was hesitant, teeth raking over her bottom lip as she studied the old injury. He recalled her lingering touch against it, and other marks along his skin as they fell asleep—it was bound to come up eventually.

Finally, her soft voice broke through the silence. “What happened?”

Deacon considered lying—it would’ve been very easy to make up some fantastical story about any one of his scars, but Madelyn always had been very astute at deciphering his wild tales and white lies. Most of the time she ignored it, let him have his fun, or added grandeur herself. Other times, especially as of late, she wanted the truth—and it likely had to do with their developing relationship. He owed her that much, and a part of him felt relieved at the decision.

“Normandy,” he started, Madelyn’s eyes widening in shock, a gasp on her lips. The assumption was there, that he had stormed the beaches on D-Day, but no. “I was fighting in Caen, in the city, with British Allies. German bastard got too close for comfort.” 

“I don’t know why I should be surprised that you served,” Madelyn whispered, still focused on the scar. “Hard to imagine you fighting somebody else’s war.” 

“Plenty of Railroad business overseas,” Deacon shrugged, catching her puzzled expression, eyebrow arched as she met his eyes. “Or at least what would eventually become the Railroad.”

Madelyn seemed to read between the lines, a slow, knowing smile creeping across her lips. “So, you’ve always been a spy.”

Deacon didn’t say anything, matching her grin instead. He knew it was harder to hide the deviousness of a non-answer without the help of his shades, but he was still going to try, if only to rile Madelyn up. She laughed, much to his delight, head tilting back and exposing her neck. He wanted to reach up and unbutton the shirt— _his shirt_ —to expose more skin, wanted to kiss her, keep her there with him forever.

“I was sixteen in 1944…” Madelyn trailed, reaching down to thread her fingers through the hair along his temple. “Just how old _are_ you, Deacon?”

There was humor in her question, but it startled him all the same and he had to quickly remind himself of how _bare_ he was, how easily she could read the subtle emotions on his face. Not that he’d forgotten his age or anything, but he’d suppressed so much of his past and youth that the truth was murky. Just like his war-scars, or his _name_ (which she hadn’t spoken aloud since discovering, to his surprise), this subject was fair game. It was amusing really, how completely backwards they’d gone about forming a partnership— _relationship_. Then again, their courtship was anything from conventional.

“Old enough to remember prohibition,” he finally replied with a grin, chuckling at her visible confusion as she performed silent equations in her mind. She leaned forward, palms flat against his chest as she scrutinized his face with a wary look.

“You aren’t robbing the cradle with me, now are you?”

Deacon guffawed, one hand tickling at her side and prompting her to wiggle against him in the delightful way he wanted as she giggled. “Not that old, sweetheart. And you aren’t that young.”

“ _Hey_ ,” she pouted, mocking offense as she pushed away from him once again. “My birthday isn’t for another month.”

 _That’s right_. If he’d read her license correctly (because _yes_ , Madelyn had been correct to assume he’d been snooping through _some_ of her things), she was turning thirty on July 1st. Well, it was only fair since he knew _her_ age, that she knew his. Birthday and astrological sign could come later, maybe over a bottle of brandy, or after a blood oath— _just kidding_.

“Forty-one and some change,” he said, watching her expression carefully. Instead of amusement or uncertainty, there was a calm sense of wonderment in her baby-blues, scanning over his face like she was seeing him for the first time.

She lowered herself close again, bracing herself against his chest as she brushed her fingers through his hair again, trailing her fingers down across his temple and jaw line before tracing the angle of his nose and the line of his lips. Madelyn regarded him with the tiniest of smiles as she moved, painting him with her brush—he was all too willing to be her canvas.

She kissed the corner of his mouth before slowly erupting into a fit of giggles. “How much change, old man?”

Deacon laughed with her but was more preoccupied by the way she angled her head as she lost herself to her amusement, exposing the soft skin of her neck. This time, he couldn’t hold back and bucked the weight of her body from his hips, hooking his arms around her waist before flipping them so her back was flush against the mattress and he was hovering above her, lips already kissing a teasing line from her chin to her ear.

“How long do I have you for today?” he asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.

“I don’t have anywhere to be but here, with you.”

Leave it to Madelyn to say something romantic, without a trace of lewdness. She sighed, softly moaning as he kissed along her neck and the collar of the shirt. Deacon slowed his movements, even before she spoke again, breathing out the words against the shell of his ear. “No need to rush.”

An affirmation, even as he was drowning in the deep end. Maybe it was time to come up for air, at least for a little while.

Deacon pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, holding her body to his as he rolled to his side. He nestled his head into the pillow, tightening his arm around her waist and smiling when she kissed him softly in return, tucking her arm around his middle. _Slow_ —he could do slow. A nice, and wonderful change of pace to his wild and unpredictable, hectic life. He found comfort in the silence formed between them as they simply stared at one another, studying each other’s faces with quiet expressions.

“A secret for a secret,” Madelyn suddenly prompted, though Deacon was unsure of how much time had truly passed. As if she could tell that he didn’t understand, she continued. “I asked _you_ something. You can ask _me_ something, if you want.”

Tit for tat—Madelyn always was good about keeping things square. His mind swirled with the possibilities, and he very nearly responded with a hushed _everything_. She wanted the truth, right?

“A secret you haven’t learned about me yet?” she teased, tilting her head back so she could better see his face.

More questions floated through his head, but they all sounded too invasive, even for him, especially for where they were in their undefined relationship. Since she mentioned it, what was she like at sixteen? What were her parents like? Had she ever been overseas? She’d love Paris—or maybe Dublin, take her back to her roots. What did she look like on her wedding day? What was it like to be married to _Nate_ , and…could she ever love again?

Yeah, those were all way too intrusive.

Deacon swallowed back the tightness in his throat. He needed to say something before his mood spiraled or he said something rash. “Can you help me get out of some parking tickets? Lawyers can do that, right?”

Madelyn flashed him a curious look, the faintest hint of disappointment at his deflection of humor before softly laughing. She’d expected him to ask something more personal, just as she’d done, and he’d _goofed_.

“When they aren’t providing legal advice to grisly detectives or being shot up at city hall, I suppose,” Madelyn spoke, with enough mirth in her tone to relax him, make him feel like he hadn’t offended her. “Which reminds me. I need more clothes from my apartment. I can’t walk around in dirty, blood stained dresses all weekend.”

“I’m sure I saw it as the latest fashion trend in Vogue,” Deacon joked in reply. “At this rate, Nick owes you a stipend. Or a shopping spree at Bergdorf Goodman.”

She grinned, obviously delighted by the idea. “You know, Nick doesn’t pay me. The city does. But I won’t pass up a trip to Fifth Avenue, if you’re offering.”

A day trip to Manhattan didn’t sound too bad, when she put it that way. He mirrored her smile, sliding his hand over her side. “You’re already the best dressed lawyer in Massachusetts.”

“Flatterer,” she said, a wistfully. “Save the designer labels for when I’m back in court.”

Deacon thought about that, and her time spent away from the District Attorney’s office as Nick’s legal aid. “Ever thought about opening your own practice?”

Madelyn’s eyes shined with a different kind of excitement, as if the thought had never crossed her mind. And if it had, she hadn’t given it much serious thought. Which was really all just a shame, all things considered. Her nervous silence didn’t deter Deacon.

“You belong with the big-wigs down at city hall, Charmer,” he encouraged, watching the corner of her mouth twitch up in a smile— _good_. “You’d even have a shot at becoming state attorney if you wanted.”

She breathed a laugh, but it wasn’t out of disbelief. Her cheeks were dusted with the lightest blush and he wondered if he was the first person to ever tell her something like that. But why not? Madelyn deserved good things, _great_ things, and he would move heaven and earth to give it to her, if it was what she wanted.

“Big dreams for the future,” she responded. A non-answer, but he didn’t need one, based off of her bright expression. “What do _you_ want?”

The question was a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from him. His heart seized for a moment before continuing, racing in his chest. Deacon knew Madelyn could sense the rapid pace of his pulse, and the anxiety etched into his features. For a long time he’d resigned himself to a life of subterfuge, to a life of lies and deception. After Barbara, he was married to his life as a spy and his life in the Railroad. There was nothing else—there could be nothing else. Until now.

Now he was shifting, suddenly dusting off cobwebs and morphing his life in ways he never thought possible to make room for somebody else. Somebody he _wanted_ , somebody he _needed_. Somebody to share his life with. Terrifying, thrilling and mesmerizing all the same. He spoke the truth.

“Someplace to rest my head.”

“Hmm,” Madelyn sighed, softly smiling in agreement as she reached up to comb her fingers through his hair. He was beginning to think that she _liked_ seeing him without the pompadour wig and preferred the auburn waves. “Well deserved.”

“Where have you been all my life?” he asked, well before he could hold back from saying it, tightening his jaw and inhaling sharply at the shock of his own words. At least Madelyn interpreted it as flirtatious banter rather than anything too serious, flashing him a cheeky grin as she closed the distance between them to kiss him sweetly, lingering there against his mouth.

“Boston,” she whispered. Before he could continue the kiss or bring her any closer she rolled away, onto her back, turning her head to look at him. She prompted him, beckoning him to snuggle against her side. “Come here.”

Deacon was considerably bigger than her, but she didn’t seem to mind the weight of his body laying halfway atop her, his head resting against her shoulder with her arm wrapped across his shoulder, their legs tangled together across the blankets. It was _different_ , but a good kind of different—exactly what he needed.

“Just stay here a little while, like this?” she asked, quietly.

He didn’t mind staying like that forever. “Anything you want, Charmer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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